


To Somewhere Like Hell Or Up Above

by porcupi



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous Universe, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, au: alana is right, canon-typical domestic fluff/angst, slightly mindfuck reverse hurt/comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2018-01-18 11:40:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1427155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/porcupi/pseuds/porcupi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal and Alana are the last ones standing. Life is lonely when all your friends are disappearing around you, and the man you both love is probably responsible.</p><p>The events taking place after Mukozuke (2.05) and before Futamono (2.06).</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Somewhere Like Hell Or Up Above

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for Mukozuke (2.05) and possibly Futamono (2.06). I realize that this could be read as unreliable narration or as an AU. You can really take it either way.
> 
> Also, I did not expect to ship this, but damn.

 

When she calls the ambulance, she neglects to mention there are two people in need of medical attention. It slips her mind entirely. Later, she will mention this to her own therapist. Her therapist will ask her how she feels about this, and she will say that if she were a better person, it would bother her.

The killer is on the floor some distance away, dazed if not dead. Hannibal's lips are blue, cold with exposure and blood loss. She and Jack are trying to stop the bleeding while the paramedics are en route, and as the tranquilizer wears off, Hannibal begins to shiver.

"How did you find me?" he asks her.

"We traced your cell phone," she says.

He looks alarmed all over again. "My phone --"

"Hush," she says. "Nobody's calling you tonight. I'll find it. Don't worry."

There's blood and water everywhere, clinging to his hair, red on gold and white marble floor. She has no idea how long he's been here, or what's been done to him.

"Stay awake, Hannibal," she demands, keeping the tremor out of her voice when he relaxes.

"I'm awake," he says, barely audible, but his eyes are closed.

Jack goes to find the paramedics. In the few moments they have alone, Hannibal opens his eyes and looks at her again. His pupils are dilated, irises glazed.

He murmurs, "I'm glad you found me."

Alana doesn't have any hands free, and he can't reach for her. Before she can think better of it, she leans over and presses her cheek to his forehead like a kiss.

\---

"Do me a favor?" is the first thing Hannibal asks her, hours later. They are in a darkened hospital room, and the machines are beeping steadily.

"Yes?"

"Make sure Jack eats," Hannibal says. He's drowsy, drugged and half-asleep. "I don't think he's eaten properly in days."

"No," Alana agrees. She doesn't know how Jack is still standing. His wife's suicide attempt, Beverly Katz's death on the heels of it, and now this. "I will."

She's holding his hand at his side, and Hannibal runs a thumb over her knuckles. "You too," he says. "You should go home. Get some rest."

Alana finds it in herself to smile. "I'm not going," she says firmly, because he should know as well as she does that she's won't.

He huffs a laugh, tired as he is. "It's worth a try," he says.

She shakes her head. "You have always been very bad at lying about what you want," she says.

"I want you to take care of yourself," he says.

"No," she says.

He tries again. "I want you to be well."

"You want me to be here," she tells him. "Ask me to stay."

He tightens his grip on her hand.

He whispers, "Don't leave me."

He knows she takes better care of herself when she has someone else to take care of. She always has, for as long as she's known him. But she knows him well enough to know when he means something unspoken as well. _Don't leave me too._

She promises, "I won't."

\---

Jack comes in at around dawn. There have been police reports to file, paperwork and statements to give, investigations to approve. Alana's been handling Hannibal's schedule, for her part. She checks his messages, notes down which clients she'll have to call, what appointments will need to be rescheduled.

Jack motions her out of the room silently.

"Press is here," he says quietly. "To boot." There are journalists milling about beyond the doors at the end of the hall. She knows the headlines that need to be moved from the front page. The Copycat's Copycat strikes again. FBI killer kills from behind bars. This is the fourth attempt on the life of a participant in Will Graham's increasingly notorious murder trial, and the first to be unsuccessful.

She rubs her temples. "I'll deal with it. What do you usually tell them?"

"That they can't report on an active investigation," Jack says, and he just sounds very tired. "This isn't an active investigation. We have everybody involved in custody."

"Respect for the victims' families," Alana says shortly. "No details."

Jack nods. "All right."

Before she goes, Jack says, "Hannibal doesn't have any family, does he?"

Alana says, "No."

Jack looks like he knows she doesn't mean it, but he doesn't press.

"Alana," Jack says, "I'm sorry. I am so sorry, about all of this."

"Be with Bella, Jack," Alana says more gently.

He looks gratefully back at her. "I'll be by later this morning," he says. "So you can go home for a few hours."

"Thank you," she says.

\---

In her few hours' break, she goes home and clears her own schedule for the day. She picks up clothes, books, some of her work. She checks her messages and her mail. She doesn't allow herself to think until she strips out of her dank clothes and steps into her shower at last.

She remembers meeting Abigail.

A penchant for manipulation, Alana had told Jack. Withheld information to gain information. Demonstrated only enough emotions to prove she had them.

Given the years she deserved, what could Abigail have become?

When does it begin?

_Will, what have you done?_

She allows the warm water to run down her back and the rage to come one drop at a time. By the time she turns off the spray, she's pleasantly numb.

\---

When she returns to the hospital room, she briefly remembers doing this a lifetime ago, Abigail in the bed with a dressing at her throat. But the image dissipates and it's Hannibal now, sitting up in the soft light streaming in through the window, staring out the murky glass, his hands in his lap, pale bandages around.

It's jarring. She's seen many people in the course of her career with those bandages, but it was never supposed to be Hannibal. She feels like she's seeing something she shouldn't be.

She steps into the room and sets a white bakery box on the bedside table. He turns to look at her, and his eyes fall on it curiously.

"Saving me from a poisoning as well now, I see," he jokes. His voice is hoarse from the choking the night before, and he sounds terrible. Worse, now that the bruising's set in.

"I thought you'd appreciate something that wasn't hospital food."

"Home cooking?"

"Not quite," she says. She shows him the logo on the box, from a small Italian grocery market. "Picked it up on the way."

He inclines his head. "It'll do."

Cautiously, she pulls up a chair. He watches her sit.

His hair is a mess, sticky and dark, set in its disarray. He's in a hospital gown, ill fit causing the usual gape at the collar. Still he looks calm, exhausted but alert.

"How are you doing?" Hannibal asks.

"Awful," Alana says, because there's no beating around the bush. "I took a couple days off. I cancelled all your appointments for you, so you don't have to worry about them."

Hannibal absorbs this. "Thank you." Awkwardly, he adds, "I don't recall asking --"

"We broke into your office. I have your planner and your phone," Alana says. "You're not getting them back for a couple days."

Hannibal looks both irritated and thankful. "Is that how you knew where to find me?"

"Yes. You have Jack to thank for that." Alana is unrepentant. Hannibal is the sort of man who has been known to go out of his way for his work, to give too much of himself, to occasionally show up tired because of a late-night or early-morning phone call from a patient. He's usually good at handling himself, but sometimes he becomes emotionally invested to a point of detriment. Work becomes too personal for him. It takes a toll. She doesn't need to point that out.

Hannibal looks down, then back at her. "And how did you know I was in need of finding?"

Alana averts her eyes. "Yes, well," she says.

It hangs in the air between them.

Alana doesn't want the question she knows is coming, but she knows he needs to ask, and he deserves to know.

"The man said that Will had sent him," Hannibal says. "Is that true?"

His voice is hesitant, and there's something hopeful about the way the light strikes his face.

She's silent.

This is answer enough, and something flickers across his expression before he looks away, out through the window again.

"Did he lie about it, or did he tell you what a monster I am?" Hannibal says flatly.

"He didn't tell me anything," Alana says. "He just… looked at me. And I just…"

"Knew," Hannibal says.

"Yes," Alana says quietly. "You didn't tell anyone where you were going."

"No."

"You should have," she says.

"I didn't think it necessary," Hannibal says. "I didn't know I was in danger. Who would I have told?"

"Me," Alana says. "Jack. Anybody, goddamnit. The bailiff, the judge, Beverly Katz died knowing a lot less!"

Hannibal is silent. "I hadn't made plans," he admits. "I thought I'd get out of my office for once."

"Hannibal --"

"My schedule is too often empty these days," he adds bitterly.

Alana doesn't know what to say to that.

The sit in the midday light of the hospital room for a long time. There's the sound of wheels clattering and the chatter and murmur of nurses and doctors, surgeons being paged in the hallways.

"He didn't know about the bailiff or the judge," Hannibal says at last.

"How can you be sure?"

Hannibal doesn't answer. "There won't be evidence."

"Of course there won't," Alana says. "He's not sick anymore."

She doesn't know how you're meant to digest the information that the person you have been helping, the person you have been trying to save, has been dishonest with you all along. Intellectually, she knows how to advise a person who has been used. Practically, she has no suggestions whatsoever.

There haven't been two killers. There has been Will Graham, and a man who has been killing to exonerate him, killing for the whisper in his ear.

\---

Everybody who knows Alana knows Hannibal.

The medical and academic communities are deceptively small. Hannibal is well known for his work, his publications and case studies widely cited. He turns away more patients than he accepts, but requests keep on coming. Socially he's almost equally as notorious. Hannibal enjoys people; he enjoys meeting them, and they enjoy his company. It's rare to meet someone as charming, cultured, and in possession of an appropriately crude sense of humor in the right circumstances. Between the two of them, Alana has always had the better memory for faces, but that has never stopped Hannibal, who would bend and murmur into her ear at events if he needed a name. She would whisper back, and the next conversation would reap a business card or two, which he would promptly file and forget about.

He's generous with himself and with his time, and people are always glad to have him as a result. As she has come to know him better, however, she realizes that while everybody knows Hannibal, very few people know much about him.

His acquaintances know he holds wonderful dinner parties at his house a few times a year. He has a very successful practice, and he donates liberally to charity. He goes to events -- art shows, openings, concerts. He has fine taste in cars and in wine. He dresses boldly, elaborately and well. He has no family to speak of, few people know where he grew up, and nobody knows what he does with his time.

People don't tend to inquire into his personal life. Most assume what they will. Perhaps he's single, or perhaps he's simply discreet. Perhaps he has someone in his life, perhaps he does not. It makes very little difference to most of the people with whom they associate. Alana knows he has an independent medical examiner do regular screening every six months. It's nobody's business.

What Alana knows is that Hannibal spends his days at his practice helping people, and his evenings cooking, or swimming, or chatting with people at charity events, or suit-shopping, or listening to music, or reading up on the latest developments in psychiatry or maybe just reading in general. He has a very full life, but it's possible he's actually quite _alone._ A paradox that one can never be wanting for company, but still feel isolated.

Alana can relate. Unlike their acquaintances, she knows there is nobody constant in Hannibal's life. He always seemed content enough with that, but then maybe he never thought about it before Will.

\---

Alana has to suppress a grin when she pulls her car up to the entrance of the building and Hannibal walks out. He's carrying a backpack, wearing a hoodie and track pants.

He opens the door. "You've done this on purpose," he says, aggrieved.

"I didn't know your size," Alana says. "I haven't seen you this dressed down since that student spilled formaldehyde on you at that conference."

"That wasn't my best day," Hannibal agrees. "Nor his."

"The doctors said you could go if supervised," Alana says, pulling out of the drive. "You're coming with me."

Hannibal looks briefly surprised. "I couldn't --"

"Yes, you can, and you have to. I'm currently hosting a dozen canine friends," she says. "You're going to have to make nice."

Hannibal considers this. "Only if I can cook," he says.

"You can backseat cook," she says.

He makes a face like _please,_ but he doesn't protest.

\---

Tattle Crime isn't to Alana's taste. She tries to avoid the site and its morbid coverage, crime scene photos displayed in high contrast, an attempt to make art out of something grotesque. The wild speculation and borderline libellous content doesn't interest her, as passionate and well-written as it is. Crime thriller fiction is one thing, but exploitation of real tragedy for a compelling story is another.

However, and Alana hates to admit it, a side-effect of Freddie Lounds' unethical reporting practices is that her research can be surprisingly accurate. She gets reports that haven't been made public, coaxes witnesses out of hiding, suggests the logical leaps a responsible news outlet dare not make. Often she's wrong. Sometimes she's right. When she's right, she's always the first.

So when Alana is at her office the next day, trying to catch up with her correspondence, the blog is the only news source she has open on her laptop.

She keeps returning to the interview. She finds Will's portrait staring out at her again and again, frank gaze daring an audience to search his eyes for a soul.

Why did he do the interview?

He didn't know. He couldn't have known.

The privacy room, Alana thinks. He needed an outside visitor capable of passing on the information.

_Do not pass him anything but soft paper. No pens, no pencils. Do not accept anything he attempts to hold out to you. Do not let him touch you. You do not touch him._

Alana remembers Will's hands shaking when she reached across the table for them. She remembers they weren't, days later, when he reached across the table for hers.

She thinks of Braver mumbling under his breath in exasperation, _Darling, the warnings were made for people like you._

Matthew Brown was Will's nurse.

Everybody wanted to save Will Graham. Everybody wanted to protect Will Graham. Everybody wanted to help Will Graham. In the short time he had spent at the Baltimore State Hospital, Will Graham convinced a man to murder for him in cold blood.

What _was_ it about him?

Will stares out at her.

\---

Hannibal _liked_ Will. To Alana's knowledge, it was the first time in a very long time that Hannibal had _liked_ a patient, taken a reluctant personal interest that bordered on unprofessional.

Will was never really Hannibal's patient, but only because Will didn't allow himself to be anyone's patient. Hannibal was meant to look after Will in a work-related capacity for the benefit of the FBI. But whatever unforeseen event occurred, whether it was the Minnesota Shrike case or Abigail Hobbs or something else, and the connection became something else.

Hannibal started by addressing Will's pathology, but rapidly came to know the man aside from the apparent madness. Alana guesses he began to see in Will all the things that she did -- the sharp mind, the wit, the wry sense of humor, the self-deprecation, the good heart. There was always a fragility about Will that made one want to protect him, to take care of him.

She wonders if Will knows how long it took Hannibal to stop practicing as a surgeon, and why he quit. She wonders if Will realizes that when he missed that one appointment, Hannibal drove two hours in the evening to find him and to make sure he was all right. She wonders if he knows Hannibal talked to her about it afterwards, worried it was unprofessional, or that he hadn't wanted to talk to her about it -- which was even more damning, because it meant he _knew_ she would say it was unprofessional. She wonders if Will ever thought about Hannibal bringing him food or clothes at the lab, or at his house, or at the hospital. She wonders if he knows that she would take Hannibal aside and tell him gently, _you shouldn't do this, it's not your responsibility._ She wonders if he knows Hannibal would just sigh and say shortly, _I know._

She has seen Hannibal attempt to disentangle himself from complicated doctor-patient dynamics. She knows he tried. Abigail Hobbs was the distinguishing factor this time, a constant reminder of the work they do, the lives they lead. Alana never had much moral high ground when it came to either of them.

7:30 in the evenings, and Hannibal's become so accustomed to it that he no longer has anything booked in that spot on his nights off.

\---

The dogs greet her at the door when she comes home. They are still various stages of reluctant around her, but most of them have warmed up to her by now, even if some of them hang back. She scratches behind their ears, gently removes the hem of her skirt from one of the smaller ones' mouths, and enters her kitchen to find Hannibal staring in dismay at a shattered glass bowl on her floor.

"Do you know how many things the dogs have broken all the weeks they've been here?" she says. "You've been here a day. What did I say about cooking?"

"I needed something to do," Hannibal says.

Alana sighs deeply and shuts the door to keep the dogs out of the kitchen. "It's lucky you broke the least valuable bowl I've got."

"I didn't think you'd want me handling your fine china," he admits, bending to pick up a piece.

She goes to find the dustpan from the cupboard, then returns and rolls up her sleeves to join Hannibal. He sees her and begins to protest.

"I have it," he says.

"Clearly you don't have it, or you wouldn't have dropped it in the first place," Alana says. She kneels beside him, and he has the grace to look chastised.

He's still wearing the pants she bought him, and now a loose sweater, hoodie tied around his waist like an apron. His feet are bare. He cradles a few larger pieces of glass in his hands, looking about for a place to put them. They scrape together, dissonant.

"Give me those."

He deposits the pieces carefully into her hands, his fingers bracketing her palm to make sure the edges don't cut her. They linger a moment in apology before he takes them away.

He watches her sweep the fragments into the dustpan with more focus than necessary.

"I can pick up some of your books for you, if you'd like," Alana says after a while.

He sits back on his heels and looks surprised. "I would appreciate that very much. Might I have my phone back?"

"Absolutely not," Alana says.

When he goes to stand up, he has to lean against the counter briefly. She catches him while he waits for the dizziness to pass.

\---

Hannibal's phone rings on her desk the next day while she's preparing for class. She looks at the display. Frederick Chilton.

Why Chilton feels he has the right to call Hannibal right now is beyond her. She tries to imagine a sincere apology coming from his mouth and cannot. She then imagines the other reason Chilton might call: his new prize patient.

Alana is not easily frightened. She isn't afraid visiting the Baltimore State Hospital. She wasn't afraid when Abel Gideon came after her. In fact, she has been terrified for herself only once in her recent memory: when Will stood in her kitchen having escaped his handcuffs, two guards strangled by the side of the road, a handgun in his pocket when he bent to greet the dogs, and for a long terrible moment, she had been certain that he would reach out and snap her neck.

She is frozen in abject terror at the prospect of Will trying to contact Hannibal again now.

She ignores the call, and the subsequent one. Then her own phone vibrates.

She stares at it, shaken, then turns it off and goes to give her lecture.

\---

Alana only knows of Hannibal's therapist in the abstract. Bedelia Du Maurier. She's gone now, retired to an undisclosed location. Hannibal told Alana only that Bedelia had felt she could not help him further.

"I'm sure you don't need me to tell you this, but that's not to say she thinks you can't be helped," Alana had hedged. "Only that she doesn't think she's suitable for your needs at this particular point in time."

"How many times have you told a patient the same?" Hannibal had asked Alana.

"Many times."

"Did you mean it?"

Alana had clearly failed to hide the expression she was making, because Hannibal laughed, slightly rueful.

Alana shouldn't blame Du Maurier, but she doesn't know the woman, which makes it at once easier and more difficult to blame her for abandoning Hannibal now, of all times. Bedelia was Hannibal's therapist. He should be talking to her about these things.

Alana is Hannibal's friend. He doesn't need to talk to her about it. She should know.

Alana's beliefs about Will are beginning to unravel. She no longer knows where his design ends and begins. One thing she knows is that she wasn't at the center of it. She never had to bleed to tear herself away.

\---

The lecture halls at the Academy in Quantico are too normal, too adjusted to scandal now. Will's former students were never told the particulars of what had happened apart from an admonishment to consider, as officers in training, that every person is innocent until proven guilty in a court of law. Of course the students gossip, but not within earshot of the faculty, and not within at least a mile of Jack Crawford.

Considering the nature of their work, it's difficult to avoid the news. When she walks past the LCD display in the lobby, it's showing an interview with Chilton on the front steps of the hospital. Even Chilton seems to be avoiding the cameras today, scowling in the frosty early-morning air, clutching his walking stick close to him. A couple students are watching and chatting idly in the chairs surrounding the screen. The titles on the screen indicate an update on the incident related to the Copycat Murders trial.

Alana has to force herself not to speed up. By the time she exits the building, her heart rate is nearly normal.

\---

When she gets home, the house is quiet. The dogs pad through the foyer, and she removes her jacket and scarf, hanging them up by the door. She walks into the kitchen and her steps slow.

Hannibal is asleep in an armchair in the living room, legs drawn up, and head pillowed on the cushioned armrest, one hand trailing on the ground. Nearby is a stack of books on her coffee table. One journal is open on the floor, as if he'd been reading it when he drifted off. The afternoon light is coming in through her window, picking out the gold strands in his hair.

She crouches next to him and watches the rise and fall of his shoulders. She hesitates, then brushes her finger lightly against the back of his hand. She can feel his pulse there, faint underneath cool skin.

She remembers walking into a hospital room, Will asleep at Abigail's bedside; she remembers smiling and draping a blanket over his shoulders, how he hadn't even stirred. She remembers falling asleep herself at Will's bedside. She'd woken up with a blanket around her shoulders, Hannibal asleep in the opposite chair.

There are fewer and fewer people around them, and too many bedsides in their lives.

In a way, it's just the two of them now.

She retrieves a blanket from the sofa, shakes it out and gently tucks it around him. Then she picks a spot in the armchair across from him and takes out her work.

She reads in the living room for an hour, until he wakes with a long gasp and kicks off the blanket. He leaves it on the floor when it tangles between his legs, stumbles to the bathroom, shuts the door and locks it behind him. She listens to him cough for what feels like an eternity.

\---

She had no idea. All that time.

All that time while Hannibal was trying to figure out what was wrong with Will, when Hannibal was waking up at four in the morning to take Will's calls, when he was clearing his schedule for Will's last-minute appointments, when he was scheduling brain scans and making sure Will ate properly and accompanying him to Jack's crime scenes in the evenings. Will was getting steadily worse.

There was Abigail devouring his time as well. Alana knew Abigail wasn't difficult on purpose. It made sense that she might fixate on Hannibal and Will, would try to get their attention. Considering what had happened, Hannibal would have been reluctant to tell her no. But Abigail was supposed to be Alana's patient. She should've been able to handle the situation. Hannibal shouldn't have gone over her head, but he shouldn't have felt the need to.

Then Abigail disappeared and Will was taken in. Alana had to get the news from Jack, Hannibal standing speechless on the front porch in cold winter morning, unsure how it had happened. Even when they compared notes, Hannibal didn't know what had gone wrong. Will didn't remember anything, he said. Automatism could explain the blackouts. It wouldn't explain the fishing lures.

And then Will broke out of jail and Hannibal went missing.

When they came back from Minnesota, Will was put straight into the ICU. Hannibal had blood splattered on his face, flecks across his throat, and he hadn't slept in days. They sent him off to shower and rest, and it was left to Jack again to tell Alana, flatly, that after a thirteen-hour non-stop drive, he had found Will about to kill Hannibal in the kitchen of the Hobbs house. Jack had had to shoot first.

Hannibal never stopped insisting he could help Will. Alana thought she should have known, back when she introduced them, that self-destruction could be contagious.

\---

"This isn't the first time a patient of yours has gotten violent," Alana says.

"Not nearly," Hannibal says, head low.

He's sitting on the tiled floor in the bathroom, back against the edge of the tub. Alana had found him like that when she'd brought him a glass of water, Hannibal finally unlocking the door for long enough to let her in.

"You do have a history of taking on patients that perhaps you shouldn't," she says from where she's sitting against the wall opposite.

"And keeping them on longer than might be advised."

"Risk-seeking behavior?" Alana adds softly, "We don't have to talk about this if you don't want to."

"It's better to," Hannibal offers her a haggard half-smile. "I can't say I've had a brush with death quite as close as this before. Nothing so planned, nor deliberate."

"Nothing so personal." That hits the nail on the head, from the look on his face.

What happened to Hannibal would give anybody nightmares, but it wasn't just one traumatic incident for him. It was the latest in a string of progressively worse manipulations and cruelties, starting from an innocuous place. By no means do they have an easy job, and compartmentalization allows them to maintain their lives separate from their work. The problem occurs when those categories break down.

"A patient of mine once came to me, concerned about the company he found himself keeping," Hannibal says. "I told him this: he might not be a psychopath, but he may be attracted to them."

"Then maybe we're in the same boat," Alana says, and Hannibal doesn't reply, but something wounded flickers across his face and she regrets it.

For as long as she's known him, Hannibal has been acutely perceptive when it came to other people. But all those who study the human mind tend to have a blind spot when it comes to themselves, and she's never been sure whether Hannibal followed the rule, or whether he simply chose to avoid indulging in too much self-reflection. Hannibal always threw himself head-first into life, reserved but extroverted, barrelling ahead despite setbacks. Until recently, Alana hadn't seen him deeply affected by grief, or disappointment, or stress, or any of the afflictions common to mere mortals. Seeing him now, she wonders why she assumed he wasn't susceptible, or that he didn't hide the same marks everybody else did.

"Violence was never a stranger to me," Hannibal says finally, looking at the glass between his hands. "And as I grew older, nor I to it." He swipes his thumbs across the surface of the glass. "I wanted to understand."

Hannibal doesn't speak about his childhood. Alana tries to imagine him as a boy, and the image eats away at the edges of her mind.

"You wanted to help," Alana says. "You thought if you could understand, you could help."

Hannibal's hands tighten on the glass.

"You can't help everybody, Hannibal. You have to look after yourself."

Hannibal lowers his head and doesn't say anything. For a long time they sit on the bathroom floor, waiting for the world outside to turn to dusk. Alana gets up to make them dinner eventually, and Hannibal follows, tentative.

Before she goes, Alana hesitates, then asks:

"Did he ever talk about me?" Hannibal knows what she means.

She expects him to demur, to cite breach of doctor-patient confidentiality even now.

But all he says, quietly, is "Yes."

\---

They spend that night in the living room, lights turned low and radio music chasing away the dreams. Alana watches Hannibal doze, curled up on the sofa with his back to her, until she drifts off as well.

\---

She's checking up on various patients at the hospital the next day. One of her regular sessions is with a young girl, not much older than Abigail had been, with many of the same problems. Whereas Abigail had been guarded, this girl is learning to express herself, working past her anger to struggle with acceptance. She's lonely, and her self-imposed isolation is starting to chafe even as it provides her with a sense of security.

"Trust is difficult," Alana says. "It's the basis of genuine connection. Not every connection involves complete trust, but we start with a minimal amount. Sharing our names, or our opinions when asked, for example."

"People lie about those things all the time," the girl says.

"They do sometimes," Alana agrees. "It's good to be aware of that. It take courage to open up even with that knowledge."

"Maybe it's not worth the effort."

"It isn't always. Remember you aren't obligated to trust anyone," Alana says. "Trust is something willingly given and willingly reserved. Nobody can earn yours if you don't want to give it. Those are decisions you get to make."

"How do I decide?" the girl is curt, defiant, but she wants to know.

Alana exhales. "We all make those judgments for ourselves," she says. "Sometimes we're wrong. Sometimes we're not. That's how it is."

 _It's a risk we take_ , she thinks.

\---

When she returns to her office, she tries to read the Tattle Crime interview again, but can't get through half of it without feeling sick to her stomach.

Will's portrait stares out at her. He looks less familiar to her every day.

"But you understand him?" Freddie Lounds asks.

"Well," Will says.

She can picture him smiling and blushing, like an abashed celebrity, and she wants to tear the pages out of the screen.

\---

Jack stops by to see her before she leaves that afternoon.

"How's he doing?" Jack asks.

Alana briefly pauses while packing up. "As well as he can be," she says, buckling her briefcase.

Jack nods. "And you?" His hands are in his pockets, uncomfortable, but she appreciates him making the effort. Jack's always preferred to demand respect through fear, but grief has brought out something wiser and sadder in the man of late.

Alana waits for the answer to come to her. "Okay," she says, a little surprised.

"Good," Jack says. "Good."

Alana decides to cut to the chase and save Jack from the awkwardness of having to bring it up. "Are you going to see Will?" she asks.

Jack lets out a breath. "Yes, I am," he says.

Alana swallows. "Okay," she says. "I'm not going with you."

Jack's face doesn't change. "All right," he says. His eyes are compassionate. "I'll let you know if anything happens. Is there anything you'd like me to tell him?"

Alana thinks _yes. Ask him why._

She gathers her things, turns her back.

"No," Alana says. "Nothing."

\---

The dogs don't come to her door when she arrives home.

She finds them milling about Hannibal's legs in the kitchen. Hannibal laughs as one of them attempts to paw at the closed hand he holds in the air in front of him. Winston barks, and Hannibal glances over his shoulder to see Alana. Hannibal turns back to the dogs, crouching to scratch at their bellies, offering the treat he'd been withholding.

"Welcome home," Hannibal says. "How was work?"

Alana finds herself smiling, setting her briefcase on the counter.

"Good," she says, because even if that's not exactly true, it's true enough now. "I see you made friends."

"We've always been friends," Hannibal says, rising with his hands on his knees. "Can I get you anything?"

"Hannibal, it's my house," Alana jokes.

"Not entirely anymore." Hannibal tilts his head at the table. "I got you something."

Alana removes her jacket and drapes it over the back of a chair, watching quizzically as Hannibal wipes his hands on a towel. He takes a couple beers and a covered plate out of her fridge.

Alana stares at the plate. "Hannibal," she says.

He sets down the beers. "I made you something," he concedes. "It's nothing much."

They're strawberries, red and ripe, dusted with white and black like ash.

"Salt and matcha," he says. "Bitter but sweet."

Alana knows there were no strawberries in her fridge. "Where did you get this?"

"I went out," he says.

"Hannibal --"

He avoids her threatening tone of voice easily by leaning backwards in the chair. "You can't keep me here forever," he says reasonably. He feeds another treat to one of the larger dogs, tossing it into the air a little distance away.

There's a strange moment where Alana wants to argue that she can, before she realizes he's right.

Hannibal watches her, catching on to her discomfort. "Alana," he says, wary.

She feels something tighten inside her and shakes her head. "You know, I don't know why," she begins. She chuckles. "I just thought, for some reason -- I had this idea -- I just feel like you're safer here."

Now that it's out in the air, it hangs almost painfully.

"That's ridiculous, I know," she says.

"It's not," Hannibal says.

"You're not safer here than anywhere else," she says.

"I nearly died," Hannibal says.

"I didn't stop it," Alana says.

"I feel safer here, too," Hannibal says, and looks away.

His hand rests on the tabletop, the ridge of the knuckles lighter than the rest of his skin.

She reaches over and covers his hand with hers. His hand is much bigger, strong and wiry like the rest of him, and he tucks her fingers between his own. They're both still.

She pulls her chair closer to his. This is a terrible gamble to make, because she knows he won't move away. The question is whether he'll let her move away after she makes it.

She turns his jaw and kisses him lightly on the mouth, and he leans in and kisses her back.

\---

He tastes like beer and sweetness with a bitter note, and at first she thinks it must be the berries, but by the time she's kissed his lips bruised and licked the salt from them, she realizes maybe it's just how he tastes. There's something to be said for clumsily necking at the kitchen table, hands tangled and feet half-off the floor. She's thought about this before, if she had to admit it. Years of having one too many around kitchen implements just a little too sharp, the two of them digging each other about their terrible love lives, lamenting like a private joke.

He'd always listen to her latest story about why she _doesn't date_ , and he'd scoff and reassure her the world was missing out.

"You're doing it again," she'd point out. "Flirting."

"Am I doing it again?" he'd say. "I apologize. I don't say anything that isn't true."

He'd always flirt with her, but then he'd flirt with anyone. With no small measure of success, she had managed to determine, though he remained politely evasive with her. _I would,_ Alana would think, and then she'd banish the thought.

His hands are warm on the small of her back now, braced against her ribs, and she's pressed all along his front, mouth open against his mouth. There's stubble on his jaw, rough against her skin. She pulls at his clothing, trying to get a hold. His fingers knead the tension out of the muscles between her shoulder blades, and she makes a noise when he suddenly pulls back.

His mouth is red, skin flushed, hair mussed, shirt rumpled and unbuttoned halfway down his front. He's breathing hard and his pupils are dilated in the light. She thinks she must look a mess as well, but he wears it far better.

He surveys her at arm's length, looking a little troubled. She feels a light anxiety mount in her gut.

Finally he says, expression torn, "Did you ever do this with him?" And then immediately afterwards, "I'm sorry. That was rude. It's none of my business."

Ah, Alana thinks.

"No. No, we didn't," she says. Then, "Did you?"

His gaze is startled, then hard. "I wouldn't. Alana, you know I wouldn't do that."

She knows she shouldn't press, but she's never been able to stop herself.

"Did you want to?"

He kisses her back with a desperation like hunger.

By the time they make it to her bedroom, he's half undressed, and she's wet even though she has all her clothes on. They stumble to the bed. He's hard when she slides her hands underneath his waistband, but he takes the time to unwrap her like she's glass. Then he pushes into her with a groan, and she clutches his hair and locks her heels around his thighs and closes her eyes.

\---

They fuck their frustration and restlessness out on each other. It occurs to her that neither of them is in a good place right now, and perhaps she's taking advantage. He's in her house. He's weak, and emotionally vulnerable, and he has nobody else to turn to. If things were different, this would be questionable at best. But things aren't different, they are what they are, and both of them need this right now.

She comes before he does, and then comes again before he's done. When he's worn himself out, he buries his face in the crook between her shoulder and her neck. She runs her fingertips lightly over the bumps of his spine. He sleeps, and no nightmares are apparent.

\---

When she wakes, the other side of the bed is empty. She can smell bacon cooking and hear sounds coming from the kitchen. She gets up and notices that her clothes are now neatly folded in a chair by the bed, rather than strewn on the floor. She smiles, collects her robe, and ties it around her.

Hannibal is standing at the gas stove, humming something to himself as he cooks. Words come through now and again, something soft, Lithuanian sounding like a lullaby. She approaches him from behind and wraps her arms cautiously around him, cheek against his shoulder. His back is solid, muscles shifting, and she can feel the suppressed laugh vibrate through her, can feel his smile even though she can't see it.

"Careful," he says. "If you want to distract me, there's a good chance our food will wind up inedible."

"You never cook anything inedible," she says.

"Touché," he says.

The skillet is sizzling, and he sets the spatula down to the side. His free hand finds hers at his waist. He twines his fingers through hers and, at the same time, effortlessly flips the omelette in the skillet with one smooth, quick motion.

"Show-off," she says. He's smirking. He gently pries her arms from around him, tugging her forward so that he can hold her against his side. She watches him cook, head on his shoulder.

The sleeves of his sweater are rolled up, his forearms bare. The bandages are gone now.

The cuts were badly done with a knife, long and imprecise. Not a surgeon's work. The doctors had done their best, but the wounds will still leave visible scars, deep thin scars on each wrist in the wake of Will Graham.

Hannibal wears full-sleeved clothing most of the time, generally three-piece suits and coats, impeccably tailored. Most of the world only sees him dressed to the nines. But he pushes up his sleeves now and then, when he's writing or when he's cooking, and Alana realizes this is what she will see from now on.

She considers that he may just keep them covered now, to avoid the uncomfortable questions and silences. It might be too much to expect him to explain that he didn't do it to himself. She thinks, _I did this to you. Jack did this to you. Will did this to us._ But Hannibal is the one with the marks that look self-inflicted, and nobody to convince him that they're not.

She remembers laughing at him when they used to do work in his office. He would be reviewing papers with the sleeves of his shirt rolled up and she would tease him about his casual state of attire. God forbid he ever showed up without a tie. His secretary always looked like she was about to faint. He would just give her a look, shake his head and go back to his work.

She realizes then that she's clutching at him, fingers white on the bare skin just above his wrist and his thumb. He sighs, sets down the skillet, and turns off the stove.

"Alana," he says.

"I'm sorry," she mumbles. Her vision is blurred and she's still staring at his arms. She can't look him in the face.

She feels his hand come up and tuck her hair behind her ear, smear tears from her cheek. "Alana," he says again.

She draws in a breath that sounds like a choked sob, and he sighs and wraps her in his arms. She clings to him, fingers digging into the soft fabric of his sweater, and she breathes in his scent, clean and smoke and water.

\---

Alana knows this about herself. She has a tendency to want to fix the broken things. This is her weakness, and it is why her relationships never end well.

The fact is people don't want to be fixed, sometimes. People want to be loved. These are different things, and if she can't separate the two, she can't do either.

\---

Hannibal spends the majority of the drive back to his house staring out the window. His face is turned away from her whenever Alana glances over, and she can see only the faintest reflection of his expression in the glass. The sky is clear blue, morning cloudless and warm, but he seems lost in thought.

He only seems to come back to himself when she pulls up his drive, into the cool shadows of the trees lining the walk. She shuts the engine off. The car is quiet.

"So," he says. "Back into the wild."

He flips his keys in his hand. The gesture is vaguely nervous.

"You're not being abandoned, Hannibal," she says, wry.

"I know," he says.

The plum blossoms are in bloom, and a few petals drift onto the windshield. They glow almost white in the light. Beyond them, the brick house looms, large and empty.

"Come by later?" he asks. He seems uncertain.

Alana nods. "I will."

Hannibal looks at her a last time. She gives him a small smile, and he exits the car.

She waits until his back disappears into the darkness of the doorway, then turns her ignition back on.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Man, this season has been killing me.


End file.
